The thing about traveling as much as I do is that it is very easy to get lost. I’ve been lost in about every city in every state I’ve ever been in. How many of you can say that?

I got turned around coming out of the Atlanta airport the other night and even though the road signs pointed in one direction, I just knew in my bones that wasn’t the right way to go. So I made a U-turn and went the way my gut told me to go and turns out I was right.

“Bad signage,” I said to my sister-in-law. It’s a terminology I use alot. I stole it from Shelby who stole it from an essay that author Bob Welch wrote.

Life can be like that. Full of bad signage.You think you are headed down the right path and then you find out, ohmygosh, where was it I was headed? Andy Stanley, pastor of North Point in Atlanta, says that it’s our direction, not our intention, that determines our destination.

If one of your destinations, however, is this blog, please take note. My website has undergone a change. One for the better, I hope. I hate to do this to you, but please make note of the new website: karenzach.com.

This blog will be appearing at the new site from here on out. For those of you who have this bookmarked, all you have to do is to shorten it by taking out the “wordpress.” So please join the discussions at karenzach.com

I am in love with a married man, and I’m not talking about the man I’ve been married to for the past 30 some odd years. I’m talking about another man.

I don’t know his wife so I’m not too sure what she’d think of me being in love with her man. I suspect that’s she’s kind of grown accustomed to all that adulation heaped on her man.

I don’t know what his daughters think either, but surely they understand. They must love him near about as much as they love God. I bet they come to love him even more as they grow older and realize what a truly remarkable father they’ve been fortunate to have.

He don’t know I’m in love with him. Well, if he’s reading this piece, he’ll know now. But I’m just saying there’s nothing illicit about this love I have for this married man.

I’m not attracted to him in any physical way, not that there isn’t good reason to be, he’s a fine looking fella, easy on the eyes. It’s just that’s not the source of this wellspring of emotion I have towards him.

I fell in love with him at a hotel room in Portland, Oregon. I’d picked up a copy of his book Clay’s Quilt at Powell’s Bookstore earlier that evening and while all the other journalists attending a conference went out the bar, I curled up in the middle of that big ol’ bed and began reading that mountain story.

It is such a fine story you need to read it yourself. I thought his name — Silas House — was all made up, just like the story itself, but it’s not. That’s really his name.

Silas is from Kentucky, not too far from where my own daddy grew up. He is a truly gifted writer and more important than that, Silas is just a very fine man, from the inside out.

To help you understand why it is I’ve fallen in love with a married man, I want you to read Silas’s thoughtful post about his faith. Read Part One first. Then Part Two.

Tell me what you think. I have a hunch you’re going to fall in love with this man too.

The Band kicked off the ceremony at the National Infantry Museum’s Parade Grounds.

There was a lot of marching by everyone.

And the Rifle Team put on quite the production.

You don’t suppose it was just a quinky-dink that there was a church dead-center in the middle of this dramatic production, do you?

It was very surreal.

But the graduation was a hit. I was moved to tears when they told us that the parade field was made up from the soil of historical battlefields of Antietam, Normandy, Ia Drang, and many others, signifying that sacrifices made by generations.

But we all got a laugh when Zachary’s platoon dropped to the ground in move that was more performance than punishment.

Everyone got in on the action.

Afterward, I took Zachary and Gloria on a sightseeing tour of Georgia. Zachary thanked me, saying up until then his only impression of my home state hadn’t been a very good one. He thought all of Georgia looked like Sand Hill, Fort Benning.

I showed him the breathtaking views of our Georgia mountains. We ate at the Whistling Pig in Pine Mountain and I was moved to tears when the owner made a point to come over and thank him before God and everyone for his service. “Around here we know our freedom isn’t free,” she said. In fact there wasn’t a person that Zachary met today who didn’t stop and thank him. Over and over and over again. What a change from the Georgia I grew up in. The Georgia of Lt. Calley and the My Lai trials. Zachary has no knowledge or understanding of that. He does not know, thankfully, what is it to live in a time when you had to discard your uniform and not wear it in public for fear of the anger it would invoke. He only knows gratitude — and this for a fellow who has just finished basic training. “I don’t feel like I’ve done anything to earn their thanks,” he said.

I gave him a lesson in all things Kudzu.

And took him to FDR’s Little White house where all the visiting camp kids wanted to get their photo with the man they called Mr. Soldier.

We talked about the polio that struck FDR and Grandpa Gene.

And made a trip out to the museum at the rehab pool that FDR had built.

The waters have been drained since the 70s but the tools of rehab remain.

We stopped at Starr’s Mill where we ran into Dave fishing.

He’d caught a blue gill moments before we arrived but he was fishing for crappie. Dave said he’s been out west. “Been as far west as New Orleans and as far north as South Carolina,” he said. Dave grew up in Columbus & Phenix City. He told me all about a girl he’d met when he was a young boy about Zachary’s age. The girl was from Atlanta and kept insisting that he get his uncle’s cow in out of the rain. She was worried about it. So Dave and his cousin put the cow in the barn but the cow kept getting out.

“You don’t think that girl was one of those animal rights activists, do you?” I asked.

“I don’t know about that,” Dave mused. “But I think she was about half-ignorant.”

I told him David was my father’s name. The pramatic Dave replied, “Walk into any place and call out Dave and about half the men will turn and answer.”

I could have spent the entire day chewing the fat with Dave.

But he had worms to go.

And we had miles yet to get to Atlanta. Zachary had a flight out to Oregon.

Another stop or two, to check out the neighborhood and the local anti-terrorism techniques and entertainment systems (note: satellite dish on the house post to the right).

We got to the airport in plenty of time. I think I made a convert out of Zachary. “I love this kind of thing, Aunt Karen,” he said.

My nephew Zach made it through basic training. He graduates on Friday but today his mom, Gloria, and I attended the Turning Blue Ceremony.

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Commander Beachman opened the shindig with a slide presentation. I'd call it a briefing but when it comes to the military, briefings are a misnomer. Still, there was standing room only at the family orientation.

I met a man from Pennsylvania who had two sons graduating. One was 27 and the other 29. He said he wouldn’t have been so surprised if they had done this out of high school, but it’s different when they are older. The economy is lending to the upsurge in recruitment.
It isn’t affecting the number of hats people are buying, however. I saw several women wearing hats today.

But take my word for it, this last gal? It wasn’t her hat that everyone was staring at. Especially those troops who hadn’t seen a girl for 10 weeks. At Sand Hill, there isn’t a girl in sight, except the cashiers at the PX.

The Cmdr. said the Turning Blue Ceremony signified the move from recruit to the Infantry. He said the training of previous generations was inadequate, but now the military has seen the errors of their ways and are now acting as “coaches, teachers and mentors” and turning out “products” “Mules” “House” & a “weapon system” that knows how to “destroy the target.”

The Cmdr. noted that there had been “a lot of injuries to lower extremeties” due to the intense training. I translated that for Gloria: “That means he busted their balls.”

As the Cmdr. continued to give a detailed explanation of all the ways these boys had become men in the past 14 weeks, men capable of taking the lead in battle, I walked outside and noticed this sign which tickled me. So, let me get this straight. These men, the ones who are going to fight the war on terror, have to have a sign to remind them not to hurl lugis in public? Shouldn’t they have learned that in first-grade? I’m just saying…

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Other than all that it was a very moving ceremony. Gloria began to weep soon as she saw her boys. I made friends with a couple of little girls, one knick-named Tater Head who stood up during the ceremony and yelled out in her loudest 3-year old voice, “HEY CHRISTOPHER.” And another, Abgail, who came dressed to the hilt with matching purse and all for her brother’s ceremony.

It was very sweet. All of it. We are all proud of Zachary for making it through Basic Training.

Is that the best spit-shine you could manage, Son?

Gloria got to put the blue cord on her boy.

Abigail brought along her beautiful purse to her brother’s ceremony.

And what kind of Infantryman would let a woman walk in heels across a muddy field? Here, Miss, lemme give you a hand with that.

I don’t know the man personally but I like the man from afar. The man I’m speaking of is Donald Miller. Miller is the author of Blue Like Jazz,which earned him a cult following among Christians. If you haven’t read BLJ yet, get it now. It’s a terrific book. Donald’s a fine writer. And he’s a decent person, or seems to be, who really knows how decent any of us are in any given moment?

Donald is a Texas native and Oregon transplant. He tells you all that in his book. And although we are both writers and Christians who grew up in the south and now live in the great Northwest, we aren’t like pals or anything. I suppose we could be but it’s not likely to happen given our schedules and age gap and well, Donald is closer to my kids’ age. Not that that makes any difference. Jenny Lynn is younger than some of my kids and she’s still a good friend of mine. But Jenny Lynn worked for Laura Bush, too. She’s unconventional in all sorts of ways.

Ever since we met, back when she was 14, Jenny Lynn and I have had these spirited conversations. We can talk about anything, frankly. She calls me for advice. I call her for advice. Yes. A mature (by that I mean menopausal) woman can take advice from a younger woman, and probably should do so more often.

There are times when we know to back off the conversation and return to our core values — like during this last election. As you can imagine Jenny Lynn is a huge Bush fan. She was respectful about Obama but we simply could not have a discussion about politics. Every now and then we’d wade into those waters, but not often.

Whenever we did, we’d remind each other how much we love each other and that it’s okay for good friends to disagree. I don’t want friends who only agree with me. (When it comes to MY kids, I feel differently. Then the mom in me comes out.) I love that Jenny Lynn disagrees with me and can articulate why she does and I don’t ever feel like I have all the right answers and she doesn’t know anything because she’s young.

I don’t feel that way about Donald Miller, either, even though he is young. The Vietnam War probably feels like ancient history to him. I’m married to a high school history teacher so I figure if Donald grew up in Texas he spent more time studying the Alamo and the Civil War than he did the Vietnam War.

I might be wrong. He might have read dozens of books by Stanley Karnow or Joe Galloway or David Halberstam or any number of writers who’ve dedicated their careers or at least a few years of it to dissecting the Vietnam War. Myself included.

But I was surprised by a recent post on Donald Miller’s blog in which he refers to Robert McNamara as doing something noble. That is just not a word that I would ever apply to McNamara. I said as much in the comment section of Miller’s blog. I said plenty, in fact. Maybe too much, given that Miller and I don’t have the luxury of being friends first.

I mean no disrespect but I am still conflicted over Miller’s post and several of the responses to it.

I don’t think that person can go through their life abusing the hell out of others and then, when they are old and lonely, just up and decide, hey maybe I ought to have behaved better and just because they say that, everything is hunky-dorey.

I’m not sure that’s what Miller means either. But he did say that he thought McNamara had done a noble thing because he admitted he was wrong. And even cried over it, apparently, in that Fog of War flick of his that I refused to see.

My buddy Joe Galloway would likely call those tears of McNamara’s crocodile tears and I’m prone to side with Joe on this one. One of Miller’s blog readers referred to McNamara’s confession as “radical honesty.” That makes my heart hurt. Physically hurt.

I don’t think Bob McNamara was noble. I don’t know whether he was truly repentant or not. That’s between Bob and his Maker. I don’t hate the man. I don’t feel anything toward him one way or another, except sad.

Sad that so many thousands of lives were destroyed because of Bob McNamara and his deceitful ways.

If I had to choose a word to sum up McNamara it wouldn’t be a nice word and Mama always said if you can’t say something nice, just don’t say anything at all.

I still like Donald Miller. I just think his characterization of Robert McNamara is more fiction than truth. But then that was always the case for Robert McNamara, wasn’t it?

Poe and I may need counseling. I’ll have to check with Susan Isaacs to see how this therapy stuff works out. But we are having some serious issues. If there was a home to send errant dogs to, the way you can with teens, I’d have his bags packed tonight. Instead, he’s going to spend four days in the kennel while I head off to Fort Benning later this week.

Without my phone.

Tim took me on a date tonight. We went to see The Proposal with Sandra Bullock. It’s a great flick. I loved it. Loved it. The dance scene alone is worth the price of the ticket.

But not the price of a replacement phone.

I didn’t take my phone with me. No need for it in a movie theatre, right?

I left it at home.

On the table. Or in my purse. Or on the counter somewhere. I can’t recall. I had spoken to Shelby. Then Konnie and that’s the last call that phone will ever get because Poe ate the phone.

Chewed it up.

Demolished it.

There is nothing this dog won’t put in his slimy mouth. Not a thing.

I love Poe. Love him like a son. Just like a son, come to think of it.

But I be dadgum if I can afford him. He’s eating me out of house and phone.

There are some things a writer just can’t live without. The Love of God, family and the reliability of a computer and cell phone. I mean how will I find my way around Fort Benning without a cell phone in my pocket.

I don’t even know my own kids’ phone numbers. They are all plugged into my phone.

The one Poe ate.

He knew he did a bad thing, too. He knew it. Tim had been calling my phone, trying to help me find it when Poe started for the back yard, but remembering that’s where he had trashed my phone, he turned and ran back to the living room. Acting all the while like “Gosh, who did that? Wasn’t me. Must’ve been that Jack Russell that was hanging in the hood earlier.”